Til the Day I Die
by erunyauve
Summary: Complete. Before the fall of Gondolin, Glorfindel and Voronwë shared a love not even death could conquer. Returning to Middle-Earth, Glorfindel finds that grief has all but broken his lover. Slash
1. A Promise Kept

Author's Notes: This story is definitely slash with adult situations - please use your brain and don't read if such things offend you.   
  
This is loosely based on _The Silmarillion_ and _Unfinished Tales_. Voronwë, according to Christopher Tolkien's notes in Unfinished Tales, probably did escape from Gondolin with Idril and Tuor, but it is highly unlikely that he would have remained in Middle-Earth for four thousand years. His mother was Sindarin, and he already had heard the call of the Sea - perhaps he left with Idril and Tuor. However, I'm cheerfully ignoring that likelihood, as he otherwise fits nicely into the right place and time. Voronwë's story is mostly told in _Unfinished Tales_ ('Of Tuor and His Coming to Gondolin'), and he is one of my favorite elves. Without him, there would have been no Elrond or Aragorn.   
  
The two Glorfindels were reconciled by Tolkien as the same character (ref: _The Return of the Shadow_), but of Glorfindel's return to Middle-Earth, no date is given; it is at least before Third Age 1975. One suggestion is that he came with the Istari, perhaps for the same purpose, to aid in the war against Sauron. By this time there must have been very few Calaquendi left in Middle-Earth - many of the original Noldorin exiles were killed in the First Age, and those who survived returned to Aman as soon as the Valar permitted them to do so. I can only think of one other Exile who remained at the time of the WR - Galadriel. As one of the Calaquendi, Glorfindel was an immensely powerful elf, and although his part in the WR was quite small (or non-existent, thank-you Peter Jackson), he was involved in many of the battles with the Witch King and Sauron earlier in the Third Age.   
  
Disclaimer: Nimestil and Sîriesten are my characters; all others belong to Tolkien. Elvish translations are at the end of the chapter.   
  


**A Promise Kept**

  
  
_"When all is done, I will come for you, even if one hundred **yéni** pass between us and death take me, I will come for you." _   
  
"Death take me," Voronwë whispered his love's final words to him, a bitter gorge in his throat.   
  
"Voronwë?" Idril queried. The raven-haired elf did not reply, lost in his grief. Idril's kind heart bled for her friend.   
  
She looked up as footsteps, not quiet enough to be elven but lighter than any mortal, approached.   
  
"We must move on," Tuor said to his wife in a soft voice. More than the elves was he weary, yet his sense of urgency was undiminished. They had not time, not now, to grieve for their losses.   
  
"I cannot rouse him, Tuor." The man nodded, and approached his friend.   
  
"Voronwë, we must be gone by nightfall."   
  
Still the elf seemed not to hear. Tuor and Aranwë together had hardly managed to pull the grief-maddened elf from Glorfindel's body, and now Voronwë sat in silent vigil over the burial mound.   
  
The elf flinched as Tuor put a gentle hand on his shoulder. Encouraged that he had elicited a response, any response, from his friend, he spoke again. "We risk another attack if we stay here."   
  
Silence. The elf was again still as stone. Desperately, Tuor shook his friend. "Voronwë, you must rouse yourself. We cannot stay here. Or do you wish that his sacrifice be in vain, and that we all perish with him?"   
  
The elf's grey eyes snapped with anger as he regarded the man. "Leave me, then." Returning his gaze to the naked dirt atop the grave, he spoke quietly to himself, "If he cannot come for me, then I will go to him."   
  
"Nay, my son, we will not leave you here. More blood I will not cede to Morgoth," Aranwë said grimly. Tuor watched in shock as the hilt of Aranwë's dagger connected sharply with his son's head, and the younger elf fell unconscious. "Let us make haste, now," Aranwë said, bearing Voronwë's limp body away from the focus of his grief.   
  


**~~~**

  
  
"Go," the Maia urged. "We shall not tarry long here in Lindon, and I believe you have a task you must complete."   
  
"I should be sorry if I ever hoped to hide a secret from you, Olórin," Glorfindel smiled, still unused to the guise of elderly mortal the Maia had taken in Arda.   
  
"And you had best learn to keep _my_ secrets, Master Elf," Olórin grumbled.   
  
The streets of Harlindon spoke of the Noldorin stonemasons who had laid them many centuries past. Still smooth and straight, they had borne the years as gracefully as their elven makers. After inquiry at a tavern, Glorfindel found his destination.   
  
At the gates, he hesitated. What right had he to disturb the lives of the elves who dwelt within? What good could come of this? Yet his promise remained. Before his nerve failed him, he pulled the heavy bell at the gate, and a servant soon followed the summons.   
  
He explained his errand with as few details as possible, and the servant did not admit him but hurried from the gate. Moments later, she returned, and allowed Glorfindel to enter the garden.   
  
"What business have you with my father?" a voice asked.   
  
Glorfindel looked about the garden and finally connected the voice with an elf whose facial features he could not fail to recognize. 'So like him, in face and voice,' he thought.   
  
"He is an old friend of Gondolin," Glorfindel answered, somewhat satisfied at the brief look of surprise that passed through the younger elf's features.   
  
Nimestil led the strange elf into the house. Of Gondolin, his grandfather had forbidden them to speak, and Nimestil knew only that few had survived its fall. At an open doorway he stopped. "He is within, though whether you can tear him away from his music I cannot say," he said, frowning.   
  
Indeed, his old friend did not even look up from the harp he played. Glorfindel felt a mistiness come over his eyes as his memory conjured a similar scene from his old life. But the youth of those days was gone; in his place was a shadowy figure, lost in dream.   
  
"Voronwë."   
  
Something penetrated the elf's reverie, and he looked up, yet Glorfindel had the distinct impression that Voronwë looked through him, at some shadow he saw only in his mind.   
  
"I said I would come for you," Glorfindel said softly.   
  
Now Voronwë looked directly at him, but with an expression of disbelief and no little fear. "_A Valar! I faer hin mabo e nin! _"   
  
Glorfindel knelt by his old friend. "No, what you see is real, my friend, no work of spirits."   
  
"Glorfindel." He closed his eyes, as if in pain. "Death I should have had then," he murmured. He went to stand near the hearth, gazing into the fire, his hands knotting nervously.   
  
"Were it not for my father's interference, I would have gladly left this world," Voronwë continued.   
  
Glorfindel realized that his friend was not speaking to him, but to himself. He went to stand near the other elf and grasped the agitated hands in his own, stilling them. Voronwë looked up, and Glorfindel found his gaze locked into those endless sea-grey eyes.   
  
A slender hand caressed his cheek, fingered his golden tresses. Drawn closer, Glorfindel found his own hands stroking glossy hair. His lips brushed Voronwë's forehead and in turn, he felt a slight tingle as the other elf kissed his throat. At last the lips of one met the other, as if pulled by some force beyond the control of both elves.   
  
With a sob, Voronwë stumbled backward, then buried his head in his former lover's shoulder. For a long time Glorfindel held him thus, wondering at what had passed between them. Four thousand years might have been four for the passion they still shared. He had not expected this, he had not expected to be tempted. He had sworn to Idril this would not happen when he took leave from Aman.   
  
"You mean to seek him," Idril had accused, her eyes sad. "He has married. You must respect that bond."   
  
"I would not do otherwise," he had answered, shocked at her suggestion. "But I mean to keep my promise to him."   
  
" Glorfindel, leave him be! You keep a promise from beyond the grave. You will tear him apart. Let him have whatever peace he has been able to find."   
  
"Then do not withhold secrets from me, Idril."   
  
"Some secrets should remain so, lest they bring unnecessary pain in their revelation. It is enough to warn that he is not the person you once knew. I beg you, do not disturb him. He has suffered enough for both your lifetimes."   
  
'Oh, Idril, wise was your counsel,' Glorfindel thought now. Gently he released Voronwë from his embrace, and was troubled to see that his eyes were distant again, lost in some veil over his mind.   
  
He had been so young in Gondolin, barely of age when Turgon chose him to join those sailing West to petition the Valar. His father bitterly opposed Voronwë's inclusion in the party, but the younger elf would not defy his King. It had indeed been a fool's errand, and the young Noldo, alone among all who set sail, had not drowned at sea. His mother was Sindarin, and Ulmo loved the Sindar most of all the elves. Taking pity on Voronwë and his people in Gondolin, the Vala had returned the elf to land so that he might guide Tuor to the aid of the doomed Noldor.   
  
Turgon was a fool, Glorfindel reflected as he returned to Mithlond. So many had died because Turgon ignored Ulmo's warning. Yet Tuor's journey had not been in vain, for if he had never come to Gondolin, the history of Arda would have been greatly altered. It was there that he met Idril. Eärendil, their son, had ultimately saved the Noldor from their doom. Voronwë had been given life so that Eärendil would be born; Glorfindel had given his life so that Eärendil would survive to fulfill his destiny.   
  
He did not now know if Voronwë had been more fortunate than he. His friend was clearly haunted by his past, and injured in some way Glorfindel could not understand.   
  
_Sweat poured freely between their bodies as they clung together in passion born of war and desperation and death. Their usually gentle lovemaking had turned harsh and painful, Voronwë biting into his shoulder as Glorfindel buried himself deep in the younger elf's body, their cries of pain melding with those of ecstasy. Tears of the intensity of their emotions streaked both their faces as they lay together afterward, shocked by the depth of what had taken place. _   
  
Glorfindel woke from the dream, not surprised to find his cheeks wet with salty tears. The final days of Gondolin, their world collapsing around them, the bitter solace of the bed they shared - all that lay in another life now. It was time to let his memories go, to let Voronwë go.   
  
  
* _yéni_ - (Quenya) Valian years (144 years of the sun)   
* _A Valar! I faer hin mabo e nin! _ - O Valar! Take these spirits from me! (_hin_ & _e_ are mutated from _sin_ & _o_)   



	2. Touch

Author's Notes: This story includes slash and adult situations - please use your brain and read something else if such things offend you. 
    Was Glorfindel one of the Kinslayers?
Tolkien encountered this quandary when he reconciled the two Glorfindels. One possibility is that Glorfindel wasn't a Noldo but a Vanya, and related to Elenwë, Turgon's wife. A devoted brother might follow his sister into exile, but that still places him with Fingolfin's host. Other theories put Glorfindel in Finarfin's clan (due to his golden hair), absolving him of any part in the Kinslaying. How, then, did he end up in Turgon's realm? Further, there just isn't much room in Finarfin's family tree for an "Elf-lord of a house of princes" (_LOTR_). I've assumed that he did have some guilt in the Kinslaying, or at least accepts some guilt by association, since Turgon's people arrived pretty late in the course of events at Alqualondë. 
    My impression of Voronwë is that he's a little flaky, despite his name ("steadfast").
His King has sent him on a mission of life or death, and he almost misses the ship because he's naming flowers. He didn't even want to return to Gondolin, but I suppose that when a Vala pulls your doomed half-Noldorin butt out of the ocean, saying "no" isn't really an option. He and Legolas would have had a swell time together investigating the Huorns - somehow, I don't see Elrond or Fingon taking a nature walk in the middle of a quest to save the world. 
Disclaimer: Nimestil and Sîriesten are mine, as is the village of Uilohad; all others belong to Tolkien. Elvish translations are at the end of the chapter.   
  


**Touch **

  
  
_Uilohad in Harlindon, Third Age 1025_   
  
"Nimestil, _man toll sí_?"   
  
The afternoon sun sent her golden rays into the west room, warming Sîriesten and providing the best light for her work. Paint splattered her arms and frosted her hair, mimicking the greying temples of a mortal. She glanced at her son when his soft footsteps announced his presence, then returned to her work.   
  
"It was someone Father knew in Gondolin."   
  
Sîriesten paused, paintbrush in mid-air. "Is he still with your father?"   
  
"No, _Naneth_, he has gone."   
  
"If he comes again, I should like to speak with him."   
  
'Nimestil must have been mistaken,' she mused. There could not be another elf remaining in Arda who had lived in Gondolin; the few who escaped the sack of the city and the third Kinslaying in Avernien were taken by war or the Sea. Nevertheless, this stranger troubled her.   
  
Voronwë sat still and pensive before the fire in the sitting room. "It grows late," Sîriesten said. "You should eat." He looked up at her for a moment, then returned to his thoughts. Sîriesten sighed. His lucidity came and went, but tonight he seemed farther away than usual.   
  
It had not always been so. She had not wished to marry, but neither had she wished to remain in her father's house. This gentle Noldo of Avernien seemed to be the best compromise. Her father was delighted to rid himself of a difficult daughter, and Aranwë hoped that marriage would chase the demons from his son's mind.   
  
They settled with her mother's kin in Ossiriand, just ahead of the destruction of Avernien, and eventually moved on to Eregion. For many years they had a quiet life, and Voronwë began to heal. They brought a son into the world. And then Eregion had fallen, and the memories of Gondolin were rekindled in Voronwë's heart. They fled to Harlindon. Years of war and strife were followed by Aranwë's death in the assault on Morannon. Sîriesten nearly despaired, consulting a healer, though she knew already that she would find no comfort there.   
  
"It is his mind that is injured, my lady. That only time can heal."   
  
Time, at least, was something immortals did not have in short supply, and the horrors that besieged her husband receded once again. But it was like the tide going out, moments of clarity swept aside by episodes of darkness. As did others of their kindred, Sîriesten sensed a disquiet that had come out of the East, and she knew Voronwë felt it, too. She was bracing herself for another bad spell. This visitor, she worried, would not help matters.   
  
Voronwë stirred; her thoughts were stilled by slender fingers that reached up to grasp her own. Hope, gossamer-thin, warmed her hand under his touch.   
  
  
**_Imladris, Third Age 1025_**   
  
With Olórin, Glorfindel made his way to Imladris. Upon regaining one's _hroa_ after death, one was expected to return to one's old life.   
  
But his old life was gone, as lost in the Fading Years as Gondolin itself. Arda itself had changed; his own grave now lay under the sea. Most of those he had loved awaited release from Mandos or had been left behind in Aman.   
  
He that had been most dear to him was forever forbidden to him.   
  
He had given his first life for his King's daughter and her child, and his new life was tied to their descendents. Others had been released from Mandos to resume lives as husbands, fathers, leaders. His role, it seemed, was to be a long-term guest in the house of another.   
  
"Destiny leads us in odd directions," Olórin mused. "Often we cannot know the significance of our actions until all the pieces have been completed."   
  
Glorfindel looked at the Maia. "And yet destiny may be altered by one terrible mistake."   
  
"Regrets never did anyone good. We can only go forward." The Maia glanced as his fellow traveler. "And some hurts of the past cannot be undone."   
  
Glorfindel winced, understanding Olórin's warning.   
  
"Do not lose your way, Glorfindel. With him lies not the battle you came here to fight."   
  
At the Ford of Bruinen, they were met by an elf of Elrond's house, who would guide them to Imladris. The beauty of the haven notwithstanding, Glorfindel was uncomfortably reminded of the Hidden City. Though its location was not so jealously guarded, one could wander for days in the fens of the valley without discovering the true paths, and it was built to withstand a siege of some duration.   
  
"_Mae govannen, Istar! _ We have been expecting you," Elrond greeted the Maia with due formality. "And your companion?"   
  
"I am less wise, I fear," Glorfindel admitted with a smile.   
  
"Glorfindel needs no introduction, I think," Olórin smiled.   
  
"Indeed," Elrond agreed. "I can but offer my hospitality to weary travelers, though it is a poor tribute to one of such wisdom and poor recompense to one to whom I owe a great debt," Elrond bowed. Though he was one of the few Elves of great power remaining in Arda, his strength lay in neither his ancestry nor Celebrimbor's ring, nor even in the grace of the Valar bestowed upon his lineage, but in his own character. He was wise enough to accept counsel from those still wiser and noble enough to revere a great lord of the Eldar Days.   
  
Evil had again cast a shadow across the lands; Thranduil's folk in _Eryn Galen_ were nervous and the Elvenking's son told of a queerness that had settled over _Amon Lanc_. Celebrian brought similar tales from Lórien. That the Valar had sent the Istari, and returned an elf of the Calaquendi to Arda, told Elrond that the fears of his kindred in the East were not unfounded.   
  
The protections over Imladris rested in Vilya and the power of the elves who dwelt within rather than in secrecy and fortification. Though Glorfindel perceived the stirrings of Sauron's servants, their threat remained shapeless and vague. Sauron had not yet recovered the potency of the Dark Years, and even in that Age, the fallen Maia did not possess the might of Morgoth in Glorfindel's time.   
  
There was light, and much love in this house, the ancient elf saw. In his distant kin, he recognized Idril's kindness and Tuor's courage and integrity. Pride, the curse of the Noldor, was subservient to wisdom. Though Imladris had become the center of the fading elven world, it was a place of quiet reflection and rest rather than intrigue and ceremony. This house, Glorfindel knew, he would one day call his home without reservation, but presently the wholesome air could not dispel the agitation that gnawed at his heart.   
  
  
**_Gondolin, First Age 510_**   
  
Glorfindel nuzzled the hollow between Voronwë's shoulder blades, provoking a laugh from the other elf. "If I left it to you we might never leave your chambers."   
  
"You must admit the idea is appealing," Glorfindel murmured, drawing him close and resting his forehead against the back of his neck. "Did you speak with your father?"   
  
He felt the other sigh heavily. "He won't allow it." Voronwë turned over on his back and took Glorfindel's hand in his, squeezing it gently as he spoke. "Give him some time. I am his only child; he wishes for me to have an heir."   
  
'And wishes to keep his son under his influence,' the blond elf thought.   
  
"An heir, I am afraid, is beyond my capabilities to provide," he said aloud, laughing. "But I am uneasy."   
  
"What makes you so?"   
  
"No fears to which I may put a name, and yet…." Voronwë did not have responsibility for Gondolin's defense; he knew little of the threats within and without the Hidden City. Moreover, Glorfindel trusted Idril's intuition. Time was not something they had in great supply, he worried.   
  
The younger elf kept the remainder of his father's objections to himself.   
  
"You are too young to know your mind. You are under his spell now, but such bonds cannot be sundered, and you will grow to regret your haste."   
  
"_Adar_, we are hardly hasty. Thirteen years we have passed together in love, and have considered this nigh on two."   
  
"Yet you do not understand what you squander so readily. I sought a wife not among my own people so that you might escape the doom pronounced upon our kindred. I will not have you then bind yourself and your destiny to an _Etyangol_. Or did you learn nothing from your terrible voyage at sea? How much more wrath do you think is destined to fall upon one of the _Dagwenin_?"   
  
Voronwë's lips were white with anger. He longed to remind Aranwë of his own father's guilt in the Kinslaying, but held his tongue. With time, he hoped, his father would see that his objections were futile. He was fearful of proceeding without his father's blessing, and knew Glorfindel would not wish to bring such dishonor upon his kin.   
  
Cool silken locks fell over his shoulder and he returned to the present to find Glorfindel leaning over him, studying his face closely. "What are you thinking of, _meldanya_?"   
  
Voronwë traced his lover's jaw with a fingertip. "You." He sighed. "And my father.   
  
"I almost did not make it to the Sea, you know," he continued after a moment. "I wanted to remain in Nan-tathren; there my heart was easy. I could have wandered at peace in the willows for years; as it was I nearly missed the last ship." He smiled at the memory.   
  
"My love, have I ever mentioned that you are flighty as a bird?" Glorfindel asked, holding the other elf's hand against his cheek.   
  
"I believe…perhaps once…," Voronwë answered, his response broken by warm lips that covered his own. With an effort, he pushed Glorfindel back. "We really should get out of bed. Of me, they will only say, 'that flighty elf is lost in the gardens again,' but you, I think, will be missed and looked for."   
  
The older elf sighed. "You are quite impossible to leave." He lay down again, running his fingers through the sleek hair that fell away from Voronwë's face in an ebony stream. Voronwë caught Glorfindel's hand in his, clasping it over his heart, and they were still for a long while.   
  
  


* _man toll sí_
    who came here? 
* _Naneth_
    Mother 
* _hroa_
    body (Quenya) 
* _Mae govannen, Istar! _
    Well-met, Wise One! 
* _Eryn Galen_
    Greenwood the Great, Sindarin name of Mirkwood before Sauron came to Dol Guldur 
* _Amon Lanc_
    Ruins of an elven city, perhaps the first location of Oropher's realm; known as Dol Guldur after Sauron took possession 
* _Adar_
    Father 
* _Etyangol_
    Exile (Quenya) 
* _Dagwenin_
    Kinslayers (from _dag_, to slay + _gwenyr_, kin + _-in_, group plural [archaic - common in Doriath, where such a word might have been coined in Sindarin])   
Strangely, there does not seem to be a word for Kinslayer in Sindarin or Quenya, so I had to be creative. 
* _meldanya_
    my beloved (Quenya) 
  



	3. Let Me Count the Ways

Author's Note: This story includes slash and adult situations - please use your brain and read something else if such things offend you. Lemon warning (end of chapter).   
  
If you don't have access to _Morgoth's Ring_, a few details from 'Laws and Customs of the Eldar' are necessary. First, elven youth lasts about 50 years (sometimes longer), so 20 years old would be the human equivalent of seven or eight years old. (Incidentally, when I refer to Elrond's sons as young, I'm aware that they are nearly a thousand years old at the time of the story, but to Elrond and Glorfindel they are quite young.) Second, marriage customs involve the exchange of silver betrothal rings that are returned to the betrothed when the binding ceremony occurs (or melted down if the lovers part ways). The gold bands of marriage are worn on the index finger of the right hand.   
  
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Tolkien with the exception of Sîriesten and Nimestil. Translations of Elvish words are found at the end of the chapter.   
  


**Let Me Count the Ways **

  
  
_Imladris, Third Age 1035 (Winter)_   
  
Elrond wrapped his cloak about him more tightly. Winter had come early this year, and was severe; even elves, mostly untroubled by cold, remained indoors more than their want. Nonetheless, he found Glorfindel in the garden, gazing over the frozen stream that wound its way through Imladris to the River Bruinen.   
  
The elf looked up and smiled in greeting as Elrond approached. "I hope I do not disturb you," Elrond apologized. "I find the quiet of winter in the garden a great help to ponderings of the mind."   
  
"You speak truly, my friend," Glorfindel agreed. He considered whether to reveal his troubles. In the past decade he had become fond of the household, and its lord most of all.   
  
"You are troubled," Elrond said. "I hope that none in my house is the source of your angst."   
  
"Indeed, no." The elves were silent for a moment. "It is another house toward which my heart leads me, whether I will it or no." Glorfindel fixed his sight on the sculpture nature had created from a small tree, timeless in its ice-bound limbs. "We were betrothed in Gondolin."   
  
"And now? Do you love one another as you did in days past?"   
  
"I do. And I believe that my feelings are returned."   
  
Elrond was puzzled. "If you feel that you are obligated to remain in my house, have no such fear. Your company would be missed, but you owe me nothing; it is I who cannot repay my debt to you."   
  
His friend stood, pacing. "It is not so simple. He is bound to another."   
  
"That changes things," Elrond grimaced, "considerably."   
  
Glorfindel looked up. "There is more. His mind…he has had too much loss in his life, more than he could bear. He was always apt to lose himself in his thoughts." A slight smile curved his lips at the memory, then faded. "He is withdrawn, his mind is clouded," the elf finished.   
  
"All the more reason to forbear against this," Elrond warned, though his expression was sympathetic.   
  
"Do not misunderstand me. I know that our time is past." Glorfindel turned his back, gazing unseeing into the distance as he tried to find the words. "I feel that something draws me to him, something other than my own craven desires. It is as though…I must do something for him."   
  
"You feel responsible for his pain. That is natural. But trust me, my friend, there is little you can do. Such agonies of the mind are beyond my own healing skills. If he loves you still, you will only bring him turmoil, and regardless of your intentions, temptation may lead you both to ruin."   
  
"All reason tells me this, and were our places reversed, I should offer the same advice. And yet…," the golden haired elf looked plaintively at his friend. "_Lû vîn, i 'welu thuiannen nant_. I cannot abandon him."   
  
Elrond came to stand by the other elf. "If you wish for approval, you know I cannot offer that. But you are not one of my impetuous young sons, in need of a curbing influence. _Echuir ovor cennig ir nen ú-onnen_. You must answer only to your own conscience, my friend."   
  
Glorfindel groaned. "My conscience is the taskmaster that breaks me," he sighed. "I too, fear that my best intentions may be overcome by less noble inspirations." The elf looked miserable, and Elrond could offer no solace.   
  
**_Uilohad in Harlindon, Third Age 1036 (Spring)_**   
  
The garden was in full bloom and there Glorfindel found Voronwë. As he approached, the elf laid aside the book he had been reading and greeted him. Glorfindel noted that he still wore his hair loose with but one plait that drew the hair at his temples out of his face, rather than in the elaborate braids that had become fashionable among elves during the Dark Years. The ancient elf suspected that within another millennium or two, should the trend continue, the males of his race would expend more energy in the braiding of hair than in the berating of orcs.   
  
"It is lovely here. I am afraid I did not appreciate it when I was here before; it was then winter."   
  
"It is my son's work; the blood of his mother's people is strong in him," Voronwë murmured absently. Glorfindel saw that his old lover's eyes were unfocused and distant. He laid his hand over the other's and Voronwë started, but the spell was past.   
  
"You still wear it. I'd have thought - "   
  
"So would I. The meaning of some things is deep enough that they attach themselves to the _fëa_ itself, I think."   
  
Voronwë stood, upset by these words more than Glorfindel could know. His fingers sought the ring he wore on a chain around his neck, as he had worn it four thousand years ago in Gondolin. Then, he kept it secret from his father. Now, he wore another betrothal ring on his finger, next to the gold one symbolizing a bond he could not break.   
  
"Why do you return hither?" Voronwë was startled by the sound of his own voice.   
  
Glorfindel bit back the question he longed to ask, knowing it was petulant and childish. It was unfair to him, he who had been left behind. Instead, he tried to answer the question posed. "Wisdom would warn me against it," he admitted. "But my heart…I cannot let this go."   
  
"Neither can I," Voronwë admitted. Pain and love and…guilt flickered in the eyes that had claimed the blond elf so many years past. Glorfindel came to him without intention to do so. Never could he resist those eyes. A slightly unsteady hand stroked a pale cheek. Voronwë moved away, folding his arms close to his body in a protective manner. For a moment, Glorfindel thought the other elf would lose himself again in reverie, and noted that he seemed to gather his lucidity with some effort. He began to understand Voronwë's withdrawal. He wondered if Voronwë understood.   
  
He did not wish to bring further pain into his old lover's life. Above all, he knew, the quiet elf wished for peace and calm. Indeed, the garden in which they stood had been designed with tranquility in mind. Geometric perfection had been cast aside to achieve a more natural, woodland appearance. Nothing harsh or ornamental disturbed the eye. The garden had a soothing quality, and Glorfindel realized that it spoke volumes of a son's love for his father. The thought did nothing to ease his guilt.   
  
Still, a childish voice in his head cried, 'I lost everything, too!' They were fixed in a place and time that were gone forever, and they could not move on until their losses were resolved. Something, he sensed, more tenacious than an ancient betrothal cleaved them together, something more vital than the bond that tied Voronwë to his wife.   
  
"Why did you marry?" Glorfindel asked, finally unable to stay the question.   
  
"My father wished it." The younger elf sighed. "That is unfair, I was not forced. I did not have the strength to quarrel with him. I never did." He looked down, shame coloring his cheeks.   
  
Glorfindel winced. In his misguided love, Aranwë had brought so much suffering upon his son. With a finger, he lifted the other elf's chin, forcing him to look at him. "_Voronwë, baw! Gerig tortho gaul hen_," he commanded, and the other elf blinked, clearing the veil from his thoughts. He stroked the sleek black hair. "You are afraid, _pe-muin_," he said softly. "You hide in these shadows."   
  
Voronwë turned away and nervously licked his lips, agitated fingers running through the locks his ancient lover had touched.   
  
"I should go, this does neither of us good." Glorfindel cursed his lack of objectivity. His conviction that something was needed of him was no weaker, but he knew not what, or how to help the other elf without upsetting him as greatly as he had done. He took his leave before his resolution faltered again. Outside the gate, as he untied his horse, a voice startled him.   
  
"So you are Glorfindel, of whom the songs tell and who has held my husband's heart captive for so many years." Reading the guilt in the other's face, the lady laughed. "Do not worry, there is no jealousy in me. I did not marry for love, and though he is bound to me, his heart will always belong to you." She sobered. "But I care for him deeply, as a sister for a brother, and I know him, I think, better now than you. He is…not well."   
  
"That is known to me, but I do not understand. Of such things as the sack of our city, I know. Yet, I knew him then. There is something more, Idril would not tell me of it - ." He clamped his lips together tightly. To speak of the lives of those in Aman had been specifically forbidden to him. He was not to play the role of messenger, like the charlatan mediums of mortal men; such was not his path and might alter the fabric of the future. If messages from those who dwelt now in Aman were to be given to those still in Arda, it was for the Valar to deliver them, not him.   
  
The lady smiled, her hair floating softly around her. "Idril was kind to me when others were not so. My people were the _Lindi_, and I was quite out of place among the high elves in Avernien.   
  
"Understand that he was determined to follow you into death, but for his father," she continued, returning to Glorfindel's question.   
  
"But what did his father do? He has great influence over his son, that I know well. But he could not have turned his son's will, that is his alone."   
  
"_Had_ great influence - Aranwë was lost in the assault on Morannon, and it has taken this millennium to heal that wound. Can you see why I am anxious that he not be disturbed?"   
  
"My lady, I do see, and I do not want to cause him pain. But there is much I do not understand. What did his father do?" Glorfindel asked again, growing impatient.   
  
"It is not so much what his father did, but the result, at least what Idril believed happened. It was nothing more than a sharp blow to the head; Aranwë carried his son away as the party continued on. Idril believed that his _fëa_ had already begun to cross over and has not been whole since."   
  
Glorfindel stared at Sîriesten, stunned. It was fortunate that Aranwë had passed on to the Houses of Mandos, for Glorfindel could have cheerfully sent him there at that moment. To interfere with the _fëa_ of another elf was as perilous as it was wrong. He now saw what he missed, but did not understand why he had not sensed such disharmony in the other elf. Perhaps he was too close… .   
  
"I am not unsympathetic," Sîriesten's voice interrupted his thoughts, "but very little has my husband asked except for an untroubled life, and unfortunately that has not been his lot. We have lived quietly here in Harlindon. I do not want our lives disrupted again."   
  
'And yet you must know of the darkness rising,' Glorfindel thought as he departed finally for Harlond. Would they be safe, even this far from the evil that loomed east of the Misty Mountains? Sauron's reach had come as far as the Ered Luin in the Dark Years, but then Gil-galad and Círdan held the Havens. Now only the stalwart shipbuilder remained; the hope of the Fading Years lay in the Dúnedain. He was painfully reminded that this was why he was here, and was torn anew between duty to the Valar and duty to his old lover.   
  
**_Uilohad in Harlindon, Third Age 1036 (Summer) _**   
  
"_Adar_?"   
  
Voronwë looked up, startled. Always, he needed a moment before he could gather his senses, understand his time and place. Early evening shadows played across the sitting room in response to the sway of the trees outside, shaken by warm summer winds. His son perched on the sofa near his place at the harp; Voronwë's fingers stilled as he focused his attention on the other elf.   
  
Though Nimestil was just shy of three thousand years old, his father's most lucid memories recalled the elf-child he had once been, and it was often a struggle to reconcile the veteran of the wars against Sauron with the child who had brought hope into his life for a few, too brief years.   
  
"This _Gondolind_, you loved him once?"   
  
"Yes."   
  
"What happened? Why did you not bind yourself to him?"   
  
Voronwë was still for a moment. "Why do you ask?"   
  
Nimestil picked at a loose thread. "I wish to understand."   
  
"It was a long time ago, Nimestil."   
  
"But it is as yesterday for you, _Adar_." The younger elf shifted to face his father directly. "I was only twenty when Eregion fell. I was a child and I lost my father."   
  
Voronwë winced, knowing the truth of his words.   
  
Regretting his bluntness, Nimestil laid a gentle hand on his father's arm. "I should not have spoken so thoughtlessly."   
  
Voronwë said nothing for long minutes, and Nimestil thought his attention had slipped again. At last, the older elf stood and turned away from his son, who was startled when he began to speak in a soft voice. "You know the songs that tell of Gondolin's fall, and of Glorfindel and the balrog. It was he who was here; I know not for what purpose he returns to Arda, but he is here, nonetheless.   
  
"It was in the last days of the Hidden City that I knew him, after I returned from the Sea. I alone survived, of the friends with whom I sailed for seven years, of the many who set out, hoping to escaping the Doom of our people. I did not wish to return to Gondolin; I was free and at peace there by the mouth of the Sirion. Even my father I could have forsaken."   
  
A trace of bitterness colored his voice. "He opposed our binding. The rest, I think, you may imagine."   
  
"But you could have bound yourselves anyway," Nimestil interjected.   
  
Voronwë turned, with a slight smile at his son's innocent misunderstanding. "You knew your grandfather; he was difficult to oppose. And Glorfindel is of a noble house; his fair kin did not deserve such a scandal."   
  
"You do not love her, then." It was not a question.   
  
The older elf considered his words carefully. "Your mother is dear to me, as you are. I do not regret my marriage."   
  
After his son took his leave, Voronwë slumped in a most un-elven position on the sofa, drained by the effort to keep his wits about him. Since Glorfindel had returned, he found that he was able to remain lucid for longer spells, but it exhausted him. Furthermore, the rift in his _fëa_ was more insistent than ever; in his dreams and often when awake he was plagued with visions of wraiths. They no longer frightened him as they once had, but filled him nonetheless with a cold dread that had grown more intense in recent years as Sauron's shadow increased in strength once more.   
  
For three months now his old lover had visited regularly, and his emotions were a vortex of unrelenting love and unforgettable obligation. Love between elves is deep and withstands great separations of time and place; it is for that reason that the bonds of marriage endure death and beyond. 'But what, then, if love and marriage are sundered from one another?' he wondered. Thirteen years were but a fraction of his long life, yet, as his son accused, those years were ever-present in his memory.   
  
**_Gondolin, First Age 497_**   
  
Glorfindel first noticed the younger elf when Turgon chose the party destined to set sail for Aman. The beauty of the Noldor was well represented in Aranwë's son, but it was the greenish-grey eyes that drew his notice, and for a moment, as Turgon gave his charge to the departing elves, those beautiful eyes held his.   
  
Years had passed while, their fate unknown to those in the Hidden City, the sea-faring elves sought in vain to reach Aman. Glorfindel caught his thoughts turning idly to the elf from time to time, but in truth, he did not expect that the party would return. He had little hope that the Valar would rescue them from their Doom.   
  
In his many years, he had taken few lovers and considered none seriously. His position in Turgon's service was such that he had little time for matters of the heart.   
  
Upon his return, Voronwë gained a small amount of notice among the higher echelon in the city, as the sole survivor of the party lost at sea, and more specifically as Tuor's guide and friend. He was not forgotten by Glorfindel, but the older elf hesitated, daunted by the close friendship between Voronwë and Tuor.   
  
Nevertheless, in their brief contacts at court, Glorfindel was charmed by the gentle elf. Born in Arda, he had not the discontent of his exiled kin; he did not miss the Light of the Two Trees and the peace the Exiles had foolishly abandoned. Or perhaps it was his mother's Sindarin lineage that tempered Noldorin headstrong determination. The Sindar of the city were its musicians and poets; they alternately amused and exasperated the industrious Noldor.   
  
It took some weeks and the promise of a favor to Ecthelion before Glorfindel acquired a place next to Voronwë at one of the King's feasts. The elf was, as always, overshadowed by his mortal friend, who sat near the head of the table, but Glorfindel soon perceived that the elf did not mind much at all. He was somewhat shy, and, the son of a petty noble, a bit overwhelmed by his sudden rise in stature.   
  
In fact, that an elf of Glorfindel's importance was speaking to him at all was wonderment to Voronwë. He had admired the golden elf from afar, but was one of many, most more bold than he. Glorfindel was greatly loved in Gondolin for his good heart, and admired for his unaffected nature.   
  
With idle talk, they passed most of the feast before Glorfindel found the opening to ask the question that burned in his heart. The younger elf was distracted for a moment by merry laughter among the King's people, and Glorfindel saw Voronwë and Tuor exchange glances, though he could not decipher the look that passed between man and elf. "One hears rumors that there is more than fondness between you," he observed.   
  
Voronwë returned his attention to his neighbor. "Oh, Valar, no!" he laughed. "Tuor's heart has indeed been captured, but by a lady far more worthy than this son of Aranwë." He sobered. "It shall be a hard road for them, for I believe his affection is returned, but whether her father's benevolence extends to the hand of his daughter, I do not know. I should not like to lose my heart to a mortal, for the heartache of parting cannot be avoided."   
  
Having determined that Tuor was no rival, Glorfindel found in the man a willing conspirator. "He has no concept of his beauty and would cut out his own tongue before he would admit to an unwelcome attachment. But I think I do not err in stating that your interest is reciprocated by my friend," Tuor concluded.   
  
His diffident nature had kept all but the most determined of suitors at bay, and many of the most determined had less than honorable intentions. Therefore Voronwë was wary of Glorfindel's now obvious affection, and it required much patience and tact on the part of the older elf to convince the younger of the genuineness of his feelings.   
  
It was wholly uncharted territory for both elves, for Glorfindel had never taken another to his bed in love. The nuances and passions of true lovemaking differed greatly from physical release between friends, and Glorfindel found himself treating the younger elf with care, fearful of asking too much too soon.   
  
At last he found his patience exhausted, for their nightly kisses could no longer quell his passion. "_Meldanya_, I can wait no longer," Glorfindel whispered.   
  
"_You_ can wait no longer! This waiting has nearly been the end of me," Voronwë teased.   
  
In the flickering candlelight they discovered the differences as distinct as warrior and dreamer, one with golden tresses tightly drawn back, the other with raven hair loose except for a single braid; one in the gold raiment of his House, the other in the unadorned robes of a civilian. Releasing the clasp that held his lover's hair, Voronwë marveled at the silky texture that flowed over his hands like water. His hands moved to the tunic and undergarment and made short work of each, and as his hands explored the subtle musculature of Glorfindel's slender body, he was treated to similar ministrations. Gentle hands unwound the braid from his hair and unburdened him of robe and vest, leaving both elves in their leggings.   
  
Glorfindel drew in his breath sharply at the loveliness of the creature before him. Voronwë's hair, black as flawless opals, fell about his pale skin like a cloak, its shadows accenting the fine bones of his face in the ethereal light of the candles.   
  
Resolution settling in his eyes, the younger elf stroked Glorfindel's cheek, tinged with gold from the light reflecting off his hair. As their lips met, Glorfindel pulled his lover by the hand toward the bed and sat, pulling the other onto his lap without breaking the kiss. Now his lips roamed to Voronwë's neck, pausing for a moment over his pulse before choosing a nearby spot. He drew the silky skin into his mouth, licking gently at first, then, as Voronwë arched his back in pleasure, Glorfindel suckled at his throat, raising a telltale bruise in his wake.   
  
"Ai! That was quite unasked for," the younger elf protested, laughing.   
  
"'Tis a bit late for complaints, _meldanya_," Glorfindel replied, allowing the squirming elf to slip from his lap and stand before him.   
  
A mischievous smile and hands at the laces of his leggings told the ancient elf that he had somehow lost control. He could not complain overmuch, as the removal of his final garment was a great relief, and his lover quickly divested himself of his own leggings. Voronwë stood between Glorfindel's knees and moved as close as the bed on which the other still sat would allow. Soft hands combed through golden hair at the temples and explored well-formed cheekbones and silky skin hollowing slightly to a strong jaw. The younger elf recaptured the other's lips in a long kiss, shivering slightly as Glorfindel ran his hands over his lower back and buttocks. Breaking the kiss, Voronwë traced a glistening trail with his tongue from the hollow of the golden elf's throat to his navel, bringing groans from the other as feathers of dark hair caressed his stiff member. It seemed that his lover had determined to drive him mad as lips and tongue found every spot but the one that so urgently desired attention.   
  
"_Far! Law vroniathan dan, derig i vaul hen! _" he begged hoarsely, and lay back on the bed, pulling Voronwë with him. Now oil scented with rose petals was applied, and eager gasps came as fingers coaxed open the way, preparing for a more profound joining of their bodies. In love lies more than physical union, and in that most intimate fusion the soul itself is exposed and made one from two. Intense emotion, as only elves can experience, drove their physical passion; when at last came the outpouring of relief, neither felt capable of movement or speech. Indeed, Glorfindel was slightly stunned as he stroked the tousled hair, splayed in damp tendrils across his chest, of the sleeping elf to whom he was still conjoined in body and soul.   
  
  


*_Lû vîn, i 'welu thuiannen nant. _
    One time, he was the air I breathed. 
*_Echuir ovor cennig ir nen ú-onnen. _
    You saw abundant Springs when I was not born. 
*_fëa_
    soul (Quenya) 
*_Voronwë, baw! Gerig tortho gaul hen. _
    Voronwë, don't! You can control this affliction. 
*_pe-muin_
    dear one 
*_Lindi_
    Green Elves, aka Laiquendi of Ossiriand (Nandorin) 
*_Adar_
    Father 
*_Gondolind_
    One from Gondolin (from class plural Gondolindrim) 
*_Meldanya_
    My beloved 
*_Far! Law vroniathan, dan derig i vaul hen! _
    Enough! I shall not last unless you stop this torment! (Lit: 'Enough! I shall not endure, but you stop this the torment.' Sindarin desperately needs a subjunctive case.) 
  



	4. Tears Unnumbered

(05-01-02: Ack! Fixed a half-edited verb tense error.) Author's Notes: This story includes slash and adult situations - please use your brain and read something else if such things offend you.   
  
The timeline of the flight from Gondolin may seem odd, but it is faithful to _ The Silmarillion_. I did forget to advance the year from 1035 (Winter) to 1036 (Spring) in the last chapter, which I have fixed. More _Morgoth's Ring_ elf trivia - elves celebrated their conception day, which occurred about a year before their day of birth.   
  
There is another version of Tuor and Voronwë's journey to Gondolin in _The Book of Lost Tales_ ('The Fall of Gondolin'). This is a very old genesis of the story that was incorporated into _The Silmarillion_ and 'Of Tuor and His Coming to Gondolin' in _Unfinished Tales_. It was heavily revised over the years, but it is the most complete story and contains some elements lost in later versions as well as a longer account of the fall of Gondolin and the flight of the refugees. I've relied on the _UT_ version where there are contradictions, but have pulled some details from the older version. One example is Voronwë's trade; in _LT_, he states that he is used to working with metal and wood, which fit in rather nicely with the Eregion part of this story. I also used _LT_ as inspiration for the 'pet name' given to Nimestil; 'Little Heart' is the narrator of the tales in _LT_ and is Voronwë's son (Voronwë is 'Bronweg' through most of _LT_).   
  
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Tolkien with the exception of Sîriesten and Nimestil. Uilohad is my own creation. Translations of Elvish words are found at the end of the chapter.   
  


**Tears Unnumbered**

  
  
_'Tears unnumbered ye shall shed; and the Valar will fence Valinor against you, and shut you out, so that not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains. On the House of Fëanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East, and upon all that will follow them it shall be laid also.' _ - The Silmarillion, p 95 (Ballantine/Del Rey)   
  
**_Uilohad in Harlindon, Third Age 1037 (Spring) _**   
  
In his bedchamber, Nimestil pulled the clasp from his hair and paused before placing it on the dressing table. One of his dearest possessions, the delicate design resembled a cascade of stars; its craftsmanship and the mithril of which it was made rendered it a valuable piece in its own right. Yet to Nimestil it was much more, a gift of his twentieth year and representative of the hands that had lovingly worked it. Like the mithril that never tarnished, the memory of his father remained unaltered by the years.   
  
**_Ost-in-Edhil, Second Age 1695_**   
  
The tiny elf-child grasped his mother's hand tightly as they walked through the forge. "You must not wander, Nimestil, for there are many dangers here."   
  
Nimestil nodded, looking about with wide eyes. It was his _mereth edonnad_, and this was what he had wanted most of all, to see the House of the Mírdain. It was surprisingly cool in the stone building; dwarven ingenuity had diverted a mountain stream so that it ran through pipes in the walls; together with louvered openings in the roof to allow heat and moisture to escape, the arrangement worked well in the dry air at the foot of the mountains. The little one, of course, cared nothing for this and would not have complained if the heat had been searing. He watched the blacksmiths forge horseshoes and other heavy pieces in great fires, and saw white elven steel fashioned into daggers and spear points.   
  
They came upon a large group, many visitors like themselves, others obviously metalworkers who had dropped their work to watch. The attraction was soon discovered. Apprentices gathered in hushed silence while an elf with fiery eyes and a mantle of authority worked. "That is Celebrimbor," Sîriesten whispered. "He is the greatest of all smiths."   
  
Nimestil, to his disappointment, could only catch a glimpse now and then when the crowd parted for a moment, until gentle arms lifted him up. "_Ada!_" he cried, as his father settled him on his shoulders.   
  
"Ai, _indegen_, you cover my eyes," Voronwë laughed. They watched for a few more minutes until the lesson was over, then passed through several rooms to the one in which Voronwë worked.   
  
His father set the elf-child on his feet. "_Ada, na mereth edonnad nîn!_" Nimestil announced.   
  
"So it is. I think I may have something for you." His father rummaged among some items on a table and selected one. "Turn around."   
  
The little elf stood quietly while his father fastened something in his hair. His hands reached to touch the gift, but naturally, he had to remove it to see it. Nimestil gasped with delight at the pretty mithril stars that twinkled as he turned the clasp in the light. He allowed his father to refasten it in his hair, pleased with the gift, though he was too young to appreciate the many hours of labor invested in its fashioning.   
  
The trade Voronwë had learned in Gondolin from an Exile, who had in turn been taught by the Vala, Aulë. It was not his first love - that was the harp - but metalworking was his father's trade and it had thus been chosen for him. As such, he was a well-trained craftsman, but did not share the passion of his father and other smiths who had formed the _Gwaith-i-Mírdain_ under the tutelage of the mysterious Maia, Annatar. This tutor was long departed from Eregion, and nearly one hundred years of uncertainty had passed since his true identity had become known.   
  
Indeed, Fate now moved to bring its final reckoning upon the line of Fëanor. The forces of Sauron fell upon Eregion only months after Nimestil's memory recorded that idyllic moment in his twentieth year; the elf-child watched in confusion and hurt as his father grew ever more distant and withdrawn. For two years the elves held Ost-in-Edhil against the invading armies, but too late did Elrond arrive as emissary from Gil-galad. At last all was lost - Celebrimbor was tortured, killed and, as a final indignity, his body paraded as a banner before Sauron's army.   
  
To Sîriesten fell the task of managing her young son and nearly insensible husband in their flight. Aranwë and many of the surviving elven defenders joined the dwarves of Khazad-dûm, distracting the enemy from pursuit of Tuor's grandson and the refugees who fled north. Voronwë's anxiety was almost tangible in the air - at times he seemed to believe he was in another time and place; at others he was present, yet not, and saw things she could not see but nonetheless knew were real.   
  
To add to her troubles, his terror began to afflict their son, as the elf-child measured the extent of his peril by the reactions of the adults around him. Sîriesten was grateful when Elrond, in spite of his considerable responsibilities, brought the little one to walk beside him for a spell. Her son was calmed by the attention, and she wondered that the elf-lord had taken no wife and fathered no children of his own, for he seemed to take pleasure in the innocence of the young ones.   
  
Nimestil tried hard to be brave, but he was only a child, and there was so much he did not understand. He did not know why his home had been taken away, or why they marched so fast every day that his little legs could hardly keep up. He did not know why his mother was so tired and short-tempered. His father did not seem to recognize him, and that distressed him most of all. The little elf felt very lost and alone.   
  
The vegetation grew more lush and the terrain began to undulate; where Caradhras fell sharply to the dry plateau of Eregion, the mountains here were cut with many streams and rivers and descended gradually through foothills and valleys. The scouts returned one day with reports of a steep valley ahead, and the party turned its course in that direction. Elrond soon saw that it would be an easy place to defend; the scouts had led them along a good path, but the steep surrounding hills would be hard even for the mountain-bred orcs to descend.   
  
Imladris was not then a haven; servants of Sauron soon besieged the elves. Aided by Númenor, Gil-galad forced the Dark Lord to flee to Mordor in 1700, yet it was an uneasy peace that was made, for it was certain the enemy would rise again. Determined to put many leagues between her family and the menace in the east, Sîriesten brought them to Lindon, that margin of modern Arda that survived the drowning of Beleriand. Ossiriand, it had been called in the Elder Days, when it had been her home. There they were troubled by neither hostile Númenórean nor orc, and the lady saw her husband's senses return, though the added layer of scars upon his mind left him distant and apathetic. For Nimestil, the crucial time had passed; he had grown to his age of majority while his father still struggled to master the demons of his memories.   
  
**_Uilohad in Harlindon, Third Age 1037 (Summer)_**   
  
"Forgive my intrusion, my lady, but might you spare an old wanderer a drink of water and a brief rest in the shade?"   
  
Had Sîriesten been a mortal woman, she would have likely been taken aback by the appearance of this humble man at her gate. As an elf, however, she perceived that his appearance was merely a guise and his visit no random chance. "It is well, Niphlien. Let him enter, and bring us a pitcher of water, please." The servant withdrew from the gate, and Sîriesten led the tall stranger to a bench under the trees.   
  
"Well, _randir_, what brings you to our little village?"   
  
"Our paths do not always take us where we expect to go," he answered.   
  
Sîriesten accepted the water from Niphlien and dismissed her. The visitor accepted a glass of water gratefully.   
  
"Confound this endless summer!" he exclaimed. "This heat is most vexing. Yet it is quite cool here in your garden." Having drained his water in a few gulps, the elderly gentleman came to the purpose of his visit. "I believe we share a common acquaintance, a friend of the Elder Days to your husband?"   
  
Sîriesten nodded.   
  
"I am concerned for both of them."   
  
"As I am," Sîriesten said, looking closely at the gentleman. She stood suddenly and turned to face him, distress written in her features. "I have thought much on this love that has transcended even death," the elf continued. The fingers of her left hand traced the two bands of silver and gold that symbolized her marriage. "They were betrothed, once. It was never dissolved. Voronwë and I were bound, but not in love, and in truth it was not his will to marry, but his father's wish that he could not resist. Surely the Valar may see that this circumstance is not usual!"   
  
The wanderer sighed. "Your son is dear to you, as he is to your husband, and in your love for him, you are wholly bound to one another, regardless of circumstance. Still, I daresay the exception of which you speak would not be turned away by some with the power to grant it.   
  
"Your plea would not, in the end, succeed. Glorfindel was sent to Arda for purposes as yet unknown, but my heart tells me Voronwë is not part of his destiny, at least not at present. Who can say what may pass when his task is completed? But now this passion distracts him, and it corrupts both of them."   
  
Sîriesten returned to her seat. "What then, can I do? It is not my will that Voronwë be made unhappy in our union, yet I fear more that his divided loyalty will be his final undoing. He has suffered a great deal, and none have I known to be so entirely without malice."   
  
"It is Glorfindel, I think, who must see his way through this. He holds more than your husband's affection hostage; what belongs to Voronwë must be restored," the visitor mused.   
  
"I am afraid I fail to understand your riddle," Sîriesten said.   
  
"Understanding will come shortly, I think," the visitor announced, standing. "And now I must take my leave, for I have many leagues and many doings before me."   
  
Sîriesten remained in the garden long after the wanderer took his leave. Since Voronwë's ancient lover had returned from the grave, the quiet life they had made in Harlindon had been ruptured. If not jealous, she resented Glorfindel's intrusion. And though her words were brave, the loss of her husband's companionship would be difficult to bear. Yet feelings she had refused to acknowledge to herself surfaced without permission. She, who had never wished to marry, to serve a husband, had instead been burdened with the care of an elf who at times had been wholly unable to care for himself. Even in better times, she had never been able to depend on him as an equal; it had been her lot to be strong through crises within and without their household. Guilt stirred within her heart; she had bound herself with her mind intact and knew then that her betrothed did not do likewise. She had surely been complicit in all that her marriage had brought upon her, and upon her husband and his lover.   
  
**_Harlond, Third Age 1037 (Winter)_**   
  
_An eternally youthful face leers in a death mask. Kneeling to close the sightless eyes, blood falls in splotches like rain upon the dead elf - blood from his own hands. He looks up to see Ecthelion, pale as a wraith, save the gory evidence flowing from his sword. Stricken, Ecthelion speaks: "What have we done?" _   
  
In the pitch of the new moon night, several heaving breaths were required before Glorfindel reoriented himself to his surroundings. Many millennia had passed since he last suffered this dream, and he did not welcome its return. Enough time he had spent in the House of Mandos contemplating this very sin; on enough occasions had he discussed the Kinslaying with Olórin. It had been a terrible, horrifying mistake, but a mistake nonetheless. From mistakes, one must profit in lessons learned, and the events at Alqualondë had taught him restraint and prudence.   
  
Beside him, the dark-haired elf still slept, his presence as damning as the red hands of his dream. Quietly, to avoid disturbing the other, he disentangled himself from the linens and went forth into the clear, cold night. Guilt returned this dream to him, he knew. 'Oh Valar, you have been over-generous in your measurement of this elf,' he thought. His heart betrayed the trust placed in him. His choices lay before him, all equally impossible. No path could he follow that would not bring further pain to Voronwë. To break a sacred law of the Eldar, to disregard a bond that held even in death…unthinkable, yet they had done just that. And to turn away - what he should do, _must_ do, for his lover's sake as much as his own - the mere notion he could not endure. "_A Elbereth, law 'erin i gaun!_"   
  
**_Vale of Sirion, First Age 511_**   
  
Voronwë felt as though something had shattered within him, something vital that defined his very being. The others seemed distant, illusory, as though they lived in a dream world he could not quite access. Wraiths moved through the world he now inhabited. He was quite unaware that he was screaming; he saw hands try to soothe him, but felt them not; voices spoke to him as though from a great distance. Someone forced him to drink and the liquid burned his mouth, choked him, and a smothering blackness soon followed.   
  
From time to time he became dimly aware of himself and of disembodied voices around him. "This cannot continue," a voice cried. "He is cold; he sleeps like in death. It is not the potion. My heart tells me that something has gone wrong." He heard no more as the scalding draught took his senses into darkness once more.   
  
Aranwë intended no malice toward his son, Idril knew; he could not stand to see the horror in his son's eyes when he awoke. Thus, a powerful sleeping potion he employed to delay the moment when Voronwë might know what had been done to him. His father had been too late, and she wondered if it would have been kinder to let her friend follow his heart rather than live in this waking nightmare. Days passed in this way, as the survivors descended from the Echoriath and wound their way southwest to the Sirion. At last, Idril appealed to Aranwë as the daughter of his dead King; the potion forced sleep, but not the healing sleep of elven dreamscape.   
  
The air was fragrant with late summer berries and fruits when his mind resurfaced. Voronwë struggled to throw off the black shroud that enveloped him like a wet blanket, hardly hearing the man who spoke to him insistently. In the mist about him crawled creatures of death, and tendrils of cold reached to his very core. Someone wrapped a cloak around his shoulders and at last the voice penetrated the thick curtain around his mind. "Come, my friend, you must take some food." The mist fell away with its wraiths, and he blinked in the sunshine.   
  
Tuor regarded the frightened and confused elf with concern. Even in the heat of the _Urui_ sun, Voronwë shivered with cold. In vain, he tried to persuade him to eat; at last, he had some water and slept uneasily.   
  
"He is no better?" Idril asked quietly.   
  
"He has not yet fully woken from the potion, it is a strong draught," Tuor said, avoiding her question. He sighed deeply. Would that they could halt for a few days and perhaps give his friend a chance to regain his senses. But they could not; already they had twice skirmished with orcs in their journey since the ambush at Cirith Thoronath. Turgon had entrusted his people to him; he had entrusted his daughter and grandson to his heart and to his guidance. In this charge he could not fail.   
  
Over difficult terrain and ever aware of the threat of attack, the party continued, following the Sirion south. Now winter pressed upon them, and Tuor feared more for the gaunt elf who walked beside them, unreachable and silent. He feared for all of them, for they were poorly equipped for the cold, and there was a limit even to the endurance of elves, the more so as they were hungry, frightened and tired. Their march, he thought, might last into spring. He dearly missed Voronwë's assistance, for he alone had once passed this way, with the ill-fated party lost at sea.   
  
_Penninor_ found the weary refugees in a safe haven, protected by Ulmo and Yavanna from Morgoth's servants. There, at last, they could grieve their losses and heal their wounds. Idril shed long-held tears of loss for her father, and thanked the Valar for their protection over her son, nearly lost to Maeglin's mad jealousy and hate. That tree, she thought with a shudder, would bear no more bitter fruit.   
  
Tucking a strand of golden hair behind her ear, Idril banished this dark memory and looked toward the stream where Tuor and Eärendil floated a toy boat of reeds. How that child loved the water! Both father and son would be soaked, Idril thought ruefully. She smiled to see her son's untroubled face, marveling at the resilience of children.   
  
The scent of the air and the rustling sounds in the breeze were tantalizing and somehow familiar. Voronwë's mind reeled with confusion, but at last attached itself to the place - Nan-tathren, the vale of willows. Perhaps he never left this enchanted place; perhaps he had lain in a deep sleep, and dark memories surfacing were naught but a nightmare.   
  
Eagerly his mind seized upon this idea. He looked about him in wonder at the place that had stolen his heart. The journey hither truly seemed a mere illusion - he recalled being led at times, and coaxed to eat. More dead than alive, willing his spirit to complete what it had started, but somehow he had lost his way since they had left Cirith Thoronath. He closed his eyes tightly, he could not think of that, he _would not_ think of that. He looked about the magical vale. This was where it had all begun... . The shadowy regions of his mind beckoned; it was tempting to find solace in what had been rather than what was. Clarity brought turmoil, uncertainty and pain. Delusion offered a soothing cocoon, but returned to the wraiths he found both tempting and terrifying.   
  
Tuor, though knee-deep in the water with his son, kept a watchful eye on the elf, afraid he would wander and be lost. But his friend remained still, and he was reminded of the dazed elf he had met by the Sea. This was a good place, a healing place; it was a place of which Voronwë had often spoken wistfully in Gondolin. Indeed, they rested long here, for many had need of healing.   
  
Perhaps by the grace of Ulmo, or perhaps by the enchantments in the vale, the shattered elf did find some peace here, and his friends and his father were gratified to see something of the elf they had known returned to them. The shadows yet lingered in his mind; many centuries and a child born of hope would come before painful memories no longer spawned flight into the refuge of those shadows.   
  
**_Harlond, Third Age 1037 (Winter)_**   
  
In the east, a pale rim of light promised the imminent ascent of _Anor_. He saw now what must be done; he saw now what bound them irrevocably together. His eyes fixed on the horizon, he stood motionless before the window as the door creaked open behind him and light footsteps crossed the room. "This must end."   
  
Tears stung the corners of Glorfindel's eyes, threatening to spill, threatening every ounce of resolve he had mustered. It was bitterly cold in the room, the fire having died hours ago. "Come to bed, it is cold," he urged, his voice thick.   
  
The silhouette at the window did not stir. "I am not troubled," Voronwë replied, a note of surprise in his voice. It had passed between them; the elf felt it like an ember in his heart, warming his body like the rays of _Anor_ in summer. He turned to look at Glorfindel. 'He does not know; he does not understand,' he thought. His heart ached, but with pity, not longing.   
  


* * *

  


* _randir_
    wanderer 
* _mereth edonnad_
    conception day (Literally: _mereth_, feast or festival and _edonnad_, begetting - Tolkien does not seem to have given us a word for this) 
* _Ada_
    Daddy 
* _Ada, na mereth edonnad nîn!_
    Daddy, it is my conception day! 
* _Gwaith-i-Mírdain_
    'People of the Jewel-smiths'; the order of smiths of Eregion taught by Sauron 
* _indegen_
    my little heart (see Author's Notes) 
* _A Elbereth, law 'erin i gaun!_
    Oh Elbereth, I have not the courage! 
* _Urui_
    August 
* _Penninor_
    New Year's Eve (approximately the beginning of April) 
* _Anor_
    sun 
  



	5. Telithan al le

Author's Notes: This story includes slash and adult situations - please use your brain and read something else if such things offend you.   
  
I'm mushing the timeline a bit here - the hobbits were the first to put pipe-weed into a pipe, and they had only just begun to move to Eriador in the 1000's (probably fleeing the evil at Dol Guldur). Elves, of course, did not use pipe-weed at all, but Círdan was a rather odd elf, and it seems to suit him. I've also tried to give Círdan a slightly different speech, as Tolkien did envision that the Sea Elves would have evolved a dialect of Sindarin of their own.   
  
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Tolkien with the exception of Sîriesten and Nimestil. Uilohad is my own creation. Translations of Elvish words are found at the end of the chapter.   
  


**Telithan al le**

  
  
_'But mourn not, Voronwë! For my heart says to you that far from the Shadow your long road shall lead you, and your hope shall return to the Sea.'_ - Tuor, Unfinished Tales, p 35 (Ballantine/Del Rey)   
  
_**Uilohad in Harlindon, Third Age 1037 (Winter)**_   
  
"I cannot deny that he is improved by your influence; he loves you, and I do not resent his unfaithfulness. But the guilt he suffers grows, it eats at him. It will undo him in the end." Sîriesten turned and sat near the window, looking out at nothing, avoiding Glorfindel's face.   
  
"Your friend, the wise one, was here," she remarked.   
  
Glorfindel frowned. "He wishes I were not here, I know."   
  
She turned in her seat suddenly, facing him. "I would not make the choice of Míriel, not for any love. Perhaps I am selfish - ."   
  
"Do not think that, my lady," he interrupted, unable to keep from his eyes his horror of an eternity in the halls of Mandos.   
  
She held up her hand in a plea for silence. "I thought there might be another way. When one is coerced, when one is not sound of mind…and perhaps not free to bind oneself at all, by reason of prior betrothal… ."   
  
What spark of hope Glorfindel found was extinguished before she continued, for he knew already the truth of her next words.   
  
"It will not be allowed, the Valar will not grant permission. He is not your destiny, no matter how much love you share. He is not why you were returned to Arda."   
  
"Am I permitted to decide nothing for myself?" Glorfindel and Sîriesten turned to the doorway in surprise. "Am I to be a pawn to be moved about as others will it, by my father, by the Valar, by you, _both_ of you?" Voronwë spat.   
  
"It is you who will not let me go, Glorfindel. I did not ask you to come here, I gave you up forever when my son was conceived. So long did I hold to your memory, yet now I find I only wish to be freed of you." Drawing a deep breath, he willed himself to go on.   
  
"It is not love that has bound us together these many centuries. Love cannot be so destructive. It was not our hearts but our souls that were bound," he continued, his voice fading. "For countless years our _fëar_ walked the shadows together, and long have I willed that my heart would follow. So many wasted, empty years." He closed his eyes, knowing that he must finish this, though instinct threatened to carry his mind away from the panic inspired by his own anger.   
  
In Glorfindel's heart, the thin blade of these words left a searing trail of pain.   
  
Voronwë looked up, avoiding his old lover's eyes. "Let me go. Let the past lie."   
  
"You cannot tell me that I have borne this affection alone these many years." Glorfindel's emotions were a maelstrom; his reason told him that he must leave this behind him; his heart ached when Voronwë answered his plea with silence. Was this what Idril had tried to keep from him? That his own unwillingness to release his ancient lover had kept his soul chained to his own, that his love had brought naught but pain and a broken mind? Across the room he caught Sîriesten's eye; in her face he found sympathy and something else - sadness?   
  
_**Harlond, Third Age 1037 (Winter) **_   
  
That he should have long ago returned to Imladris, Glorfindel acknowledged, but he was cast adrift, the final tie to his past loosed, and the severing yet too raw to leave behind him. Self-reproach mingled with bewilderment, and in his rooms he saw surly _rhîw_ gave way to nascent _echuir_, with no stirring of his own dark mood. It was thus that Olórin found him. The Maia would have Glorfindel accompany him to Mithlond on the pretext of an errand to Círdan, and he would hear none of the elf's objections to this design.   
  
"He will be untroubled now, I trust?" Glorfindel asked anxiously.   
  
"He will, in time."   
  
"Then it has not all been for naught, that I pursued this."   
  
Olórin harrumphed. "You were fortunate. I had great fear that Voronwë would not be able to do what must be done. He has more strength than he knows. Had he been unable to forsake you, it would have gone badly for you both. He loves you dearly, enough to do what you should have done."   
  
Understanding at last came to the ancient elf. His selfish desire to revive his past had left him unable to help Voronwë in the only way he could - by releasing that part of the other elf he had kept close through death and into his new life. In the end, his lover had understood this, and had forced the rupture of this unnatural bond by withdrawing from the only thing that should have bound them - love. 'What that must have cost him!' Glorfindel thought, ashamed of his own weakness.   
  
In Mithlond they found the ancient shipbuilder, as always, by the Sea he so loved. "Go on, Glorfindel, the _Ithron_ and I have our doings, and ye must attend to your own," Círdan greeted him, nodding toward the quay.   
  
Glorfindel looked to the quay. A figure sat pensive, the wind playing softly in his hair, his ears pricked forward as if listening. As Glorfindel came up, the elf turned his sea-grey eyes on him. "You do not hear it."   
  
"Hear what?"   
  
"The music of Ulmo, his singing that has ever drawn my mother's people over the Sea."   
  
"No."   
  
"Come and sit with me awhile, for I do not depart until tomorrow."   
  
Glorfindel thought his ancient lover had never looked so beautiful, his face lit by the joy he found in the music Glorfindel could not hear. He took a slender hand in his. "I failed you. I am sorry for it."   
  
Voronwë considered him for a moment, and Glorfindel was sorry to have brought the momentary tightness to his expression. "Perhaps not, perhaps I was meant to see my own way through this. You were not alone in wishing that we could change what had gone before, regain what had been lost."   
  
"But it cannot be so, that you knew."   
  
"Yet I did not easily accept it. I have spent the better part of my life avoiding such matters. It is, perhaps, the failing of our people; we see only loss in change, rather than opportunities unlooked for.   
  
"Imladris is where you belong, now. My heart tells me that there you are needed; you have yet much before you. In time, when you are done, mayhap it shall please the Valar to return you to me. In that I have hope, for little else stirs me now." Thus saying, he cast his gaze upon the Sea. "So long did I hide in the past that I find that the present brings only regret of missed opportunities. I am weary with it."   
  
"You shall have the peace you so prize in Aman; I am glad for you."   
  
The raven-haired elf turned to him suddenly, breaking the spell Ulmo's song wove in his mind. "You will look after my family?"   
  
"You need not even ask, it is the least I can offer."   
  
"The darkness that grows in the East, it will come near to them." The elf's brow creased with anxiety.   
  
"I will do all that I can. And Círdan is yet strong; he shall hold the Havens secure, I do not doubt."   
  
There was little else to say, but Glorfindel remained with his friend, watching as _Anor_ sank in bright red glory where the ocean met the sky.   
  
"Red sky, 'tis a good sign. Ye shall have an easy passage the 'morrow," Círdan announced, startling the younger elves on the quay. He settled himself some distance from them, lighting a slender, stemmed bowl entirely strange to Voronwë and barely recognized by Glorfindel as a pipe such as he had seen in Bree. They sat in silence as night fell and Elbereth's jewels twinkled over the dark waves, a warm wind from the south bringing relief from the water's chill.   
  
Dawn came with clear skies, as Círdan had predicted, and the Sea stretched before them, calm and soothing in its rhythmic tide. Voronwë roused himself, leaving the quay to watch the sun rise over the Emyn Beraid, and was surprised to feel tears sting at the corners of his eyes. In the half-light, a flash of gold distracted him, and he looked to see his ancient friend.   
  
"Are you ready?" Glorfindel asked, squeezing his hand.   
  
"I did not expect this to be so hard," Voronwë confessed. He turned to look at the other elf, gazing long as if to memorize each feature of the face he had loved so well. Searching, he found in the set of the jaw a return of the strength he had known in Gondolin; in the grey eyes, lit with the light of the Two Trees, he found the elf-lord, proud and valiant, of old. Voronwë smiled sadly. Already, Glorfindel had left him; he would not look back when they parted ways, one to well-earned rest, the other to a new life of duty and obligation.   
  
Hand in hand, they returned to the quay, now busy with the ship's imminent departure. It was time. Glorfindel looked into his lover's eyes; they exchanged a chaste kiss. "I will come for you," he repeated his promise of old. "Many tasks yet await me, but I foresee that I will again sail forth to Aman. _Ir pân sin na carnen, telithan al le_."   
  


* * *

  


* _fëar_
    souls (Quenya) 
* _rhîw_
    Winter 
* _echuir_
    Stirring - elven season between winter and spring, starting in February 
* _Ithron_
    Wise one, aka _Istar_
* _Anor_
    the Sun 
* _Ir pân sin na carnen, telithan al le._
    When all is done, I will come for you. 
  



End file.
